Seven
Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:
How to tell the difference between love and lust? The answer is quite simple!! Lust is purely physical. And always temporary. When the hormonal chemicals in your body wane, so too will your desire, and you will suddenly find yourself wondering what it was you ever saw in that person in the first place! But love? Love’s in it for the long haul!!
“Come in. Come out of the cold.” Christophe pulled a grimace as he opened his front door. “What happened to fall? We seem to have jumped headfirst into winter.”
It was four o’clock on Monday. The weekend had flown by, as was its nature, and for Vivien had been sadly anticlimactic.
Saturday morning she’d awakened with a vague sense of anticipation. She lay in bed wondering what had come over her. And then she remembered. The Future Leaders were meeting today to rake leaves.
The day had begun crisp and clear, the bright sunlight heightening the leaves’ rich colors as they cartwheeled over lawns in the light breeze. Perfect weather for spending a few hours outdoors. However, despite this nicely fabricated cover story, deep down she knew the true source of enticement was not the chance to be one with nature.
It was something else entirely.
Not that she’d immediately agreed to see Declan after their afternoon at the lake. He’d left her with the promise of a phone call, and she in return had done her best to take leave with an air of indifference. She was playing it cool. That’s what you were supposed to do, weren’t you?
Unfortunately, less than twenty minutes into the raking, the sun disappeared behind a thick gray slab of clouds and a chilling wind cranked up, blowing relentlessly against the student volunteers as they scrambled to keep the leaf piles from scattering across adjacent lawns. Before long her back began to ache from constantly stooping over, and her nose kept up a steady and annoying drip.
Yet the worst part hadn’t been her physical discomfort. No, the worst part had been the fact that she was distracted from her work by the urge to check and see if Declan had yet arrived. This urge she succumbed to approximately every two to three minutes. When at last she noted the time at a quarter to five, she came to the realization that he wasn’t going to show, and the heavy burden of resentment set up house, unwelcomed, somewhere deep in her chest. Here she had just donated several hours of her weekend to a charitable activity she didn’t even feel good about. How ridiculous was that? She vowed from here on out to keep her thoughts away from Declan Mieres. The last thing she wanted was to be a slave to some stupid infatuation.
The whole incident put a damper on the remainder of the weekend, and she’d actually found herself looking forward to school on Monday.
Now here she was, staring directly at the handsome Christophe. As usual, he was smartly dressed, today in a casual chestnut-brown blazer, olive button-down, and khaki pants. She could smell his signature spicy yet sporty scent. “It is freezing,” she agreed, experiencing a head-to-toe shiver as she brushed past him.
Christophe had managed a bit of redecorating since her last visit. Off to the left, a striped rug in bold colors now sat beneath the coffee table in the living room, and several large prints were hanging on the wall, modernistic pieces in matching colors. The bright oranges, blues, and reds went nicely with the deep woodwork of the interior of the house. The hallway leading back to the kitchen also displayed new art, a pictorial of night woods. While she could appreciate the beauty of the photographs they were a bit too gloomy for her tastes.
“I see you’ve been busy,” she said as she glanced around. She let him help her out of her leather jacket as she rambled on. “I swear it always turns frigid right before Halloween. Without fail, I freeze my tail off trick-or-treating—not that I trick-or-treat anymore,” she assured him, “I’m way too old for that! But I could never wear what I wanted, you know? Those cute little ballerina or genie costumes…I always had to resort something covered in fur.”
“Yes?” He gave her a blank look. “I wouldn’t know. Halloween is new to me. We don’t celebrate it in France.”
“No way! That’s weird. Well, it’s the best way to get a ton of candy, of course. Although I was always super-strict with myself. Two treats a day, that was it. I wanted to milk my stash for as long as possible,” she explained. “It never really worked, though, because Ashton would always sneak into my room and steal it. His would be gone, like, the day after Halloween! And he was always taking my favorite, Snickers. Now that’s the perfect candy bar: chocolate, caramel, nougat, and peanuts—mmmm!”
“Licorice is my favorite; dark and bitter, with a hint of salt.”
She frowned as she rested her backpack on a bench near the front door. “That sounds pretty awful—sorry.”
“Oh no. It’s excellent. You must try it.” He headed back toward the kitchen, his crutch making a dull thump on the wooden floor with each plant. He called for her to follow. “Come, I’ve made us coffee.”
Entering the kitchen, she saw that Christophe had already set the table. The large, bone-white mugs sat opposite each other, a mouthwatering aroma wafting into the air. She took the same seat as before—already, it seemed like her spot—and wrapped her hands around the cup, relishing the warmth before raising it daintily to her lips.
Christophe watched her absently. “You remind me of someone,” he said at last.
“Do I?” She waited for an explanation, but none came. She took several more sips before finally asking, “Who?”
Her question seemed to snap him out of a deep reverie, and he looked her with surprise, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “We were close at one time…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head and smiled at her. “Reminisces of an old man,” he teased. “You must stop me before I give too much away.”
She smiled in return but his cryptic explanation only made her more curious. Was he saying that she reminded him of someone he once loved? And if so, did this mean he was attracted to her in a similar way? The thought made her grin foolishly and she took a long sip of her café crème in an attempt to hide her delight. After an extended silence, she decided to try a different tack. She wanted to know more about him. “You must miss your family. I mean, since you’re the only one here in the US, right?”
“My family and I no longer speak. As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen them in years.” His voice sounded strained. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the silver lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “Again. Forgive me.” He took a long, hard pull, twisting his lips expertly to the side as he exhaled a stream of smoke.
She watched, finding his actions distasteful and captivating at the same time. “Geez,” she said softly, unable to think of a better response.
“It’s no great loss on my part.” He removed his cup from the saucer and tapped his cigarette on the edge of the plate, tapering the tip into a fine point. Then he leaned back, extending his legs. “As you yourself must know.”
She blinked. “Me?”
He smiled slowly. “Yes. You know quite well how it feels to be disappointed by an unscrupulous family member.”
Her lips parted. She frowned slightly. “I’m sorry. I still don’t understand what you mean.”
“Isn’t your father Alan Allen, the infamous defense attorney? I’ve seen his commercials on TV.”
Realization dawned in the form of burning cheeks. “Well, yes…but my parents are divorced. I don’t consider him family.”
“My point exactly.”
She stared into the depths of her cup and began chewing her lower lip. “It’s not that I have a problem with what he does for a living—although with all the slimy people he’s defended, even that’s questionable. It’s just…the way he treated my mother. He was so…so…” She raised her eyes to find him studying her intently.
“And now your father’s out of your life entirely?”
She shrugged. “Oh, he’s still around. Obviously. But we don’t see him. The divorce was…” She crossed and uncrossed
her legs, suddenly uncomfortable. “Anyway, he’s with someone else now.” She let out a yip of laughter. “She’s like…practically my age. How sick is that?”
He shook his head in commiseration. “And your mother? How does she cope with all of this?”
“She’s doing OK, I guess. She’s dating again. But I don’t know. The men she goes out with, they’re all just like my father.” She took a deep breath. “It’s like she’s trapped in this…this—”
“Perhaps her need to feel secure overshadows everything else,” he said. “It can be intimidating to be all on your own.”
She nodded but her disapproval lingered. Her mother would never change.
“People are complex, full of twists and turns. That’s what keeps us on our toes, does it not?” Christophe smiled mysteriously and changed course. “How about your relationship with your mother?”
“Oh. We live together, but…I don’t think you could call us close.”
“I’ll bet you need each other more than you know.”
Hmmpf. Maybe. But what about him? Why was he no longer on speaking terms with his family? She had to ask. “What’s your story? If you never see your family anymore, they must’ve done something really bad.”
He rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving her. “I’m afraid that shall remain a mystery until another day.” He took one last pull from the cigarette and extinguished it forcefully onto the saucer. “Chaos awaits.”
They spent an hour or so finishing up the boxes on the dining room floor. These contained what she guessed were reference books or textbooks, all in French, with long, complicated words that she’d never seen before and did not know the meaning of. There were also several boxes of brand-new office supplies still in their plastic wrappings. These she carried into a small bedroom which he had converted into an “office” simply by placing a large, dented metal desk in the center. Already, it was cluttered with folders, newspapers, and used coffee mugs.
Christophe looked around the room with satisfaction. “Things are taking shape.”
“They are?” she said.
“I don’t require much. Just the bare essentials.” He circled around, nodding. “And now, thanks to you, everything’s in one place.”
“Are you working on some kind of research project?” she asked. “Something special?”
“That has yet to be determined.” He turned to face her with a glimmer in his eye. “The next set of boxes should be far more interesting.”
She followed him out of the room, her curiosity piqued. A row of crates lined the wall, blocking the fireplace. Christophe laid his crutch aside and sat down on a stool near the crates. “I loosened the lids this morning,” he told her. “Go ahead, look inside.”
She settled down on her knees and carefully opened the first crate. Beneath layers of packing papers she spied a metallic object. She reached in and pulled it out, holding the object up in the air with a frown. “What’s this?”
“Have you never seen them before?”
“No. I mean, yes. Of course, I’ve seen them. I just—”
“I collect them,” he said.
She paused. “You collect handcuffs? I’ve never heard of that.”
“Oh yes,” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “There may not be many of us, but we’re a passionate bunch. It’s a fascinating—albeit unusual—hobby.”
She remained perplexed. “Wow. So…” She stopped, eyeing the row of crates. “How many do you have?”
“Quite a few.”
She turned the cuffs over in her hands, feeling the weight of them. Why anyone would want to collect such a weird object was beyond her. The things reminded her of the furtive looking characters she saw stooping into the back of patrol cars on the nightly news. Undeniably bad characters. Felons, chain gangs, undesirables. Why not collect something normal like stamps, seashells, or coins? She looked up at him again, seeing him in a different light. A mysterious and slightly alarming light. “How on earth did you begin collecting handcuffs?”
He sighed. “When I was young, twelve or thirteen maybe, I loved to spend every Saturday at a flea market in the center of our village. I would hunt around for treasures—you know, unique, original finds I could show off to my friends. It was there that I found a book all about the great Houdini. Out of curiosity, I bought it and quickly read it cover to cover. This was to be my true calling, I decided immediately. Magic!” He chuckled. “Yes, I was going to be a great magician who could perform daring escapes just like the master himself. The book suggested having your own handcuff and key set, so the following week I purchased my first one.
“As it turned out, magic wasn’t much of a practical career choice, and eventually I lost interest altogether. But I remained fascinated by the cuffs. There was something special about them. I’d spend hours imagining the history behind a certain pair. Who had worn them? What were the circumstances? I fantasized that I owned the very pairs that were once used to restrain infamous criminals. It captivated me.” He paused. “It still does.”
“Did you know,” he informed her, eyes dancing, “you can find literally hundreds of models and variations from all over the world? And not just handcuffs—leg irons, thumb cuffs, neck collars, balls and chains. Hundreds of different patents were issued throughout the years, and some models are quite rare and valuable.”
“Hmm.” She set the cuffs down and began digging through the crate for another pair. “I guess I can see why it would be sort of interesting, when you put it that way.” She retrieved the next cuffs, a decidedly older, more primitive model.
He held out his hand and she passed them over. “Yes, for me, the attraction is the history, the story behind the piece. Who wore these cuffs?” He paused. “Aren’t you dying to know?”
She shrugged, unsure of the right answer. But Christophe was no longer looking at her. “Since the beginning of civilization,” he went on, “there has been a need to…restrain, for lack of a better word, certain populations. Slaves, captives, criminals. It’s simply a fact of life. Strong versus meek. Good versus evil. A history of conquests.” He scooted his stool a few inches closer to the crate. “Here. Look in that box there.”
She replaced his treasure with care and moved on.
“Dig deep down, near the bottom,” he instructed as she removed wads of paper, finally extracting a thick silver pair with a longer chain.
“One of my favorites, the Rivolier Long Chain. Most likely manufactured in France in the 1950s.” Once again he gestured for the pair, holding them inches from his face as he inspected the craftsmanship. “Lovely.”
Never before had she seen someone so enamored by something so unusual. She just didn’t get it. “Where are you going to put them all?”
Almost reluctantly, he lifted his gaze. “An excellent question. I need some sort of display case, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would think so.”
“Yes.” He nodded several times, his head still off in the clouds. Then all at once he was back. “Are you feeling adventurous?”
The question came out of nowhere. Unprepared, she merely frowned.
“Would you like to try them on?” he said.
Her confusion grew. “Try them on?”
“I’ll take a gamble you’ve never been cuffed before.”
Confusion spread to dismay.
“Relax,” he said lightly. Then added, “You trust me…?”
She hesitated at his enigmatic phrasing of the words. Was he asking or telling? Either way, she felt compelled to answer. “Uh…” she began. But the matter was not so simple. Here she’d gone and blabbed practically her whole life story, while his remained a mystery. In actuality, she knew shockingly little about him. Granted, as a teacher at her school, he was not some random stranger. And neither was he just any old teacher. The name Christophe Laval echoed breathlessly, incessantly within the walls of the girls’ bathroom stalls. Only weeks after his arrival, he’d achieved near celebrity status. Any girl would be
crazy jealous to know she was sitting here, in his house—at his feet, no less!
Interpreting her stutter as an answer in the affirmative, he clicked a cuff over each wrist in one swift move, then sat back and admired his work. After a moment, he said, “How does it feel?”
She shook her head, still in a state of mild shock. But as the seconds ticked by, she relaxed a bit, spreading her wrists wide, getting a feel for the sensation of restricted movement. She let her hands drop into her lap and was startled by the clink of the chain on the wood floor. “Weird,” she said finally. “Not good. But not horrible either, I guess.” She met his eyes just in time to catch a brief glimpse of something—something that hadn’t been there before.
“I’m aware of how it feels physically,” he replied. “But how does it make you feel emotionally? Being constrained in such a way?” He stared at her intently, waiting for her response.
She tried to think. But everything was a jumble in her head with him staring at her so. She had to look away. “It makes me feel weak,” she said at last. “Powerless. Bad.” She fought to look at him. “I think I’ll do my best to avoid a criminal record in the future.”
Christophe seemed to nod in agreement, but made no move to uncuff her. A small tremor shook her shoulders. The metal chafed her skin and quite suddenly she felt ill at ease. “So, um…” She laughed nervously. “You have the key, right?”
He smiled faintly, but said nothing for what seemed to be an endless stretch of time before finally motioning her forward.
She made the short trip on her knees. Christophe promptly produced the key and unlocked the cuffs. As he withdrew, his fingertips slid deliberately along the heel of her hands, glancing off the tip of her thumbs.
She jumped to her feet so quickly she nearly toppled over backward. “Wow,” she said, and another unnaturally high giggle dribbled out.
With a look, he rose as well and hobbled over to the coffee table. Rummaging through piles of junk mail and a good week’s worth of newspapers, he came away at last with a look of victory. “Hungry?”
She frowned, perplexed by the question and the mix of strange emotions that were churning inside of her. She’d been feeling a rather keen attraction to Christophe, ever since the day she first saw him. But now? He was turning out to be different from what she’d imagined. There was a slight edge to him that made her catch her breath. Then again, people were always saying it was good to be unique. To have your own set of beliefs, your own interests. She didn’t like to be judged, shouldn’t she act accordingly? She hardly knew him. She was being unfair. And boring. Her friends were always telling her she was too set in her ways. Hadn’t Declan picked up on this as well? No wonder he’d decided to stay away from her.
“It’s ten to six,” Christophe continued, wagging the menu in the air, “and I believe I promised you sushi.”
Dinner. Alone with her French teacher. Now here was something that was far from the usual. “Yes. That’s right,” she said with a show of confidence that was not entirely believable.
“What’s your preference? Tuna? Salmon? Tempura shrimp?” he said, scanning the choices.
“I don’t care.”
He raised his head sharply. “No,” he said. “You do.” His brusque tone startled her. “Vivien,” he continued more gently, “while I appreciate your good manners I believe you could use a little practice in saying what you want. Courteousness is one thing; feebleness is quite another. Are you afraid to tell me what you’re really thinking?”
“I…” Of course she had her own opinions, but she’d always thought putting others’ needs ahead of her own was the right thing to do. Selfishness was a despicable quality. Her father was selfish, was someone she would never willingly imitate. “Tempura,” she declared after a moment. “I would like tempura shrimp.”
“Good for you.” He smiled at her like she’d just taken her first few steps. “Tempura it is.” He dialed the phone and placed their order, adding to it a smattering of new and unfamiliar items. “Twenty minutes,” he told her upon hanging up. “I’ll make us tea.”
She helped set the table. Christophe handed her real Japanese sushi plates with matching bowls and bamboo placemats. As a finishing touch, he placed in the center of the tiny table three votive candles in intricate gold vases. Everything looked so professional, she felt like they were eating at their very own restaurant.
“Do you always eat this way?” she asked.
He grinned. “Proper presentation is essential.”
Dinner was delicious. But problematic. As it turned out, chopsticks were not her friend. At one point, while trying to snag an exceptionally hefty piece, she managed to catapult the roll several inches up into the air before it bounced off the table edge and into her lap. She waited until he wasn’t looking before she shimmied the thing back onto her plate.
Christophe, on the other hand, maneuvered chopsticks like an expert, scoring even the minutest threads of seaweed salad.
“How do you do that?” she asked, tossing the sticks on her plate in defeat.
“Practice,” he answered. “Oh, and I did live in Japan for a year.”
“What? That’s totally unfair. What were you doing in Japan?”
“I taught French and English at a small school outside Tokyo.”
“How cool. Did you like it? It seems like you’ve been everywhere. Where else have you traveled?”
“I wandered around Southeast Asia for a while after that—let’s just say it was my nomad phase—and when I’d had enough, I returned to Paris to finish my degree.” He shook his head modestly. “I’ve hardly been everywhere.”
“Compared to me you have. The most exciting place I’ve been is Chicago—whoopee!” She twirled her finger in the air. “I’m dying to get out of here.”
“Dying?” he said dubiously. “Come now. This town holds something special for me…I can sense it.”
“You’re kidding, right?” She shook her head. “Soon you’ll be bored to tears. You’ll see.”
Christophe looked amused but said nothing.
“Why you ever left France, I have no idea,” she told him. “I would so love to go shopping in Paris. That would be beyond awesome.”
Her dreamy enthusiasm sent him into a lengthy chuckle. “Poor Vivien, a culture-starved girl looking for something new.” He sipped his tea, watching her. “Perhaps I can help you out.”
She looked at him with interest.
“I can introduce you to…new experiences,” he said.
“Not here,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s the same old places, same old faces, week after boring week. Nothing interesting ever happens here.”
Christophe studied her quietly. “Had your fill, have you?”
She wasn’t sure if he was referring to East Lake Pines or the dinner. Either way, the answer was the same.
Eight